Transit watching

the Astrologer’s compulsory condition

of tracking each object and degree

by minute, by day, by inch.

Wayside Station Café - the observer’s spying peephole

that’s where they sit

counting, marking off, computing each moment

in all it’s probabilities

(not to mention mind-boggling Ims)

the alignments, emphasises, significance.

Kind of Mr. Surrogate (Delegate?) God

with 80 million eyes  and 80 billion perspectives

- so many cells in His head, synapses in His brain

that He may actually have arranged this incredible side-show

to begin with.

 

So out poor star-starers

plot each micron and macron

as they trot their only path

each spec indivisible, indispensable

it’s apportioned role, liberally predestined

the more eccentric it’s arc, sure proof

that somewhere, option, alternatives exist.

 

The sky-geared crew, galactic boy scouts

motor-plate spotting

on the Virgoan assumption

that attention to each and every facet

will produce that quantum leap - aha!

trapping the Whole in partialities!

To be able to say - and see

As if that explained Aunt Maud’s new boy-friend

or, was it to make sure...in case…to keep a check

in case someone

for a dreadful instant

forgot to look,  got distracted

or omitted for one fraction to maintain…

 

1989